Of Fantasies and Friendship
by Phoenix II
Summary: Challengefic, StanxWendy, onesided StanxKyle.  Stan doesn't like his girlfriend. ONESHOT


**Of Fantasies and Friendship**

**Disclaimer: not mine**

**Summary: Challengefic, StanxWendy, brief one-sided StanxKyle.**

**Author's Note: Erm…the challenge is to improve my dialogue. Zak, I hope this satisfies you…**

**-.-**

I don't like my girlfriend.

I really don't, anymore.

I used to love her. I haven't loved her in a couple years.

I used to like her. I haven't liked her since last weekend.

Last weekend she stopped being the good, wholesome, family-fun girl I was smitten by in third grade and became … something else. Like a succubus.

I feel … enslaved. She treats me like a slave. She determines what we do, when we do it, where we do it, how we do it, and then _I_ have to pay for it, because "Oh, I left my rich daddy's credit card at home. Stan, my poor boyfriend who works at McDonalds and can barely afford to keep gas in his car, would you mind picking up this $200 bill at this clothing store/restaurant/shoe store/other restaurant/lingerie boutique?" And she wonders why I can barely afford to keep gas in my car. And guess who has to carry all the purchases she makes in these places, spending my hard-earned money? Yep, I do. Every other Saturday, you can find me staggering around the mall, laden down with dress bags, shoe boxes, hat boxes, purses, basically a new wardrobe for my girlfriend. Because I "love" her.

My best friend ridicules me for this. Every time Wendy calls me while I'm trying to pound his ass at Halo Deathmatch, he makes a loud, obnoxious whipping noise. My best friend, Kyle, who has had ONE girlfriend in his life. My best friend, Kyle, who claims that he shall only date his right hand (or left hand, he's ambidextrous) until he finds the person he will marry. Cartman always points out that Kyle never says he's going to marry a girl and calls him a fag. Kyle always then makes a kissy-face and leans down to Cartman, who squeaks and runs away as fast as his fatass can. I know he's not attracted to Cartman, but my apparently bisexual best friend will always make a point of indicating the "tappability" of any actor/actress/TV personality.

Kenny is the only member of our foursome who is still brave enough to watch porn with Kyle. I know they're not doing it, though, because Kenny always survives the sessions. He can orgasm just fine as long as he's by himself.

In fact, of our foursome, I'm the only one getting any. Not regularly, because Wendy needs at least two weeks to work up enough enthusiasm for sex. We have sex every night before a mall trip. I think it's because she wants me in a good mood. If she thinks I'm in a good mood, I must be a better actor than her. I've never given her a real orgasm. She fakes every time. I know, because I heard her telling her friends. She lost her virginity to Token. She says she just can't "feel" me when we do it. If you saw me naked and alone, you'd think she was lying. But when you put me next to Token, you can easily see that she's not. I wouldn't call it "penis envy," … except that's exactly what it is.

Today is a Saturday. Yesterday I got paid. Yesterday I also got laid. If you could call it that…Wendy likes to dominate me. Last night I was tied up to the bedposts. She's kinky, my girlfriend. I think she takes advice from Mrs. Cartman. Or watches porn herself. And not the good porn, the creepy leather bondage porn. I don't want a kinky girlfriend who fakes her orgasms because I'm not black.

Today was a day for a trip to the mall, but before we left South Park I headed by an ATM to check my bank balance. I didn't like what I saw. Out of a five hundred and fifty dollar paycheck, my bank and automatic bill pay had eaten up two hundred and seventy-five dollars, a solid half of my check. I turned to Wendy and asked her if she had remembered her father's credit card. She told me she had. I asked her to show it to me. She could not. I told her I would take her back to her house so she could get it and show it to me. She yelled at me for not being willing to provide for her. I yelled back, accusing her of taking advantage of me. She never denied it, accusing me of being a stingy bastard. I said I had needs and obligations that I needed my money for, and that she DIDN'T need a new wardrobe every other week. She slapped me. I kicked her, literally kicked her, out of my car and drove back home to where I am now: laying down, staring at my ceiling. It's a rather nice ceiling, at least to me. I have a few posters of sports players here and there. A hat rack that I attached to my ceiling because I ran out of room for hats in my closet hangs off near the center, about eighteen inches from the light. I have my baseball cap from Little League, a Rockies cap, a University of Colorado visor, and a Colorado State cap all lined up awaiting my selection. On the end, though, is the one I choose most often, my blue beanie with the red poofball top.

As I lay there, I ponder if my relationship with Wendy is worth continuing. I don't love her anymore, I don't even LIKE her anymore, the sex is pointless, she treats me like a slave … is there any point in remaining in a loveless relationship? I think if the sex was still good, a normal guy could put all those other strikes aside. But it's not. She doesn't even know I'm sexing her up, mostly. She doesn't feel anything I do. I don't think I'm going to bother trying to reconcile with her.

"Knock knock, dude," Kyle says, entering my room and appraising me. "How much did she hit you up for this time?"

"We never made it to the mall," I respond, not tearing my eyes away from the hat rack.

"Dude?" Kyle asks, moving to sit next to me. "Whaddaya mean, you never made it to the mall?"

"I kicked her out of my car," I tell him.

"…Why?"

"She slapped me because I told her she didn't need to waste my money on an entire new wardrobe every other week."

"Well it's true," he comments. "How was the sex last night?"

"She tied me up."

"Did you like being tied up?"

"No."

Kyle sits back to ponder for a moment before reaching down to grab my hand. "C'mon. I'm taking you to my place and we're going to watch porn together."

I sputter in protest.

"There's NOTHING wrong with my porn!" Kyle says, dragging me along, out of my room, down my stairs, and out to his car. "I can accommodate anything you guys want. It's not ALL guys-banging-guys-banging girls, you know. I have varied interests."

It seems it takes no time at all before we're at his house, and in his room. I haven't opened my mouth since Kyle began taking me here. Kyle, who is at this very moment down to green boxer-briefs and rifling through his DVD collection, his gluteal muscles clenching together as he stretches up to a higher shelf to find something I would feel comfortable watching. Actually…I feel quite comfortable right here. Watching him parade around in his underwear. Staring at the ass that has its own fan club in our school. I'm not kidding. The "KAFG (Kyle's Ass Fan Group)" meets every Monday evening in the Home Ec room.

I don't even realize that I'm staring until he draws my attention away from the way the cotton of the underwear stretches to mould the contours of his posterior _perfectly_.

"Erm…Stan?" he asks, in a confused tone. "If you wouldn't mind ceasing to drool over my ass like Bebe in Stan's clothing, I found something I hope you'll like…"

"Err…sure," I say, sitting up, just now noticing that my own pants are gone and that my own underwear is conspicuously tight, even before Kyle places the DVD in his player and turns on the TV before coming to join me, removing his shirt, revealing more adorable Kyle-flesh. He's got a body that could turn on a dead person. And I'm gawking again. I know I am because he has this sort of sixth sense that lets him know when someone is staring at him.

"Y'know," he quips, crossing his arms, "I brought you over here to get naked and watch porn. The porn is already going on the TV, and neither of us is naked yet. You're never going to get off if you keep staring at me. I know I'm gorgeous. I know most of the school wants to pin me to a wall, locker, or desk and either have their way with me or make me have my way with them. But, God help me, if you make me take ALL your clothes off, I will pin YOU to this bed and show you in excruciating detail WHAT they're all going crazy about!"

"If that's supposed to be a threat," I say, giving him a once over, "I'll have you know that it's not working."

To my surprise, he sighs exasperatedly and hits "pause" on the remote for the DVD player.

"Look, Stan," he says, turning to me. "We can deal with your crises of heterosexuality later. But I'm no one's pity fuck. Take your goddamn clothes off and watch the fucking porn." I don't like that he accused me of having "crises of heterosexuality." But on the plus side…taking off my clothes means he will remove those restricting boxer-briefs, and I can see that ass in the flesh, and his dick too…which is also better looking than mine. I sneak peeks in the shower, just for comparison. I'm the second-smallest of all of us. Cartman, of course, is smallest, because of all that Beefcake stuff he took back in third grade. Ahead of me is Kyle, then Kenny is the biggest. It's not ten inches, but Kenny never was good at math. That thought in my mind, I quickly strip out of my T-shirt and underwear to find Kyle naked as well.

"Ready now?" he asks, remote in his right hand while his left reaches for some hand lotion, which he offers to me.

"Let's see it," I say, taking the lotion and squirting some of it onto my right hand, which ventures southward as my left offers it back to Kyle and my eyes take in the opening scenes of the porno. There's a black-haired girl in a purple bikini…approached by two guys…a black-haired guy and a redhead. God, my mind is running on overdrive imagining these strangers to be myself, Kyle, and Wendy. A threesome between me, Kyle, and Wendy…God, wouldn't that just be all kinds of awesome? She'd never go for it, and he'd probably look at me like I was on crack, but I would agree to that in a second. I don't even care how we would be arranged. Kyle on me on Wendy sounds (and looks) as good in my mind as me on Kyle on Wendy or even just both of us on Wendy.

So lost am I in my fantasies that I'm not even paying attention to the porno again, or even to Kyle as he works to get himself off. I'm watching my own porno in my mind, with three participants screwing their way across a house that's worthy of being on MTV Cribz, with a stop on a patio, in a pool, in a hot tub, kitchen counter sex, sofa sex, bed sex, floor sex … oh God, the floor sex … soft, soft, SOFT rug … the three of us, moving in unison, joined together … all together, like _I_, at least, think would be awesome. But it would never happen. But I don't care. It's happening in my mind right now … and then it stops when my mind goes blank white and I feel the stickiness of my come on my stomach and hand. Kyle stares at me as he offers me a towel to clean myself off.

"Damn, dude, that was intense!" he tells me. "What the hell was going on up there?" he asks, tapping my head.

"Something that you'd never agree to," I mutter, wiping up and tossing the poor abused towel towards Kyle's clothes hamper.

"Tell me it wasn't me giving you a pity fuck…" he says, an exasperated look on his face, irritated because we've already gone over this.

"No, but you WERE in it…and so was Wendy," I say.

"You were fantasizing about me fucking your girlfriend? Forgive me for appropriating your catchphrase, but Dude! That's pretty fucked up!!"

"I was there too! I was dreaming about a threesome with you two!"

He's speechless. "Dude. That's pretty weak. I would NEVER fuck your girlfriend. Not even in a ménage a trios."

"What if you weren't fucking her?"

"I was fucking you while you fucked her?"

"Yep. It was the hottest think I've ever seen. God I wish you two didn't hate each other so much…"

"Stan…I like you, you know, as a friend. Friends don't fuck other friends in the ass while the assrammee is fucking his girlfriend."

"Would a friend fuck a friend in the ass if the assrammee wasn't fucking his girlfriend?"

"No."

"No? But…but, you're…"

"Bi? No I'm not," Kyle says disgustedly, putting his underwear back on.

"But…your porn…with Kenny…and you don't wanna marry a girl…and that thing with Cartman…"

"Dude, that's all your evidence? You suck at playing detective, Stan. You think that just because I don't particularly care if I don't marry a girl, because I tease Cartman with that kissy-face, that I'm bi, and you don't wanna watch bisexual porn, so you two run off screaming when I mention porn and leave me with Kenny, who will NOT stop hitting on me while we jack it."

"So…wait, if you're not bi…"

"I'm not gay, either, asshole."

"You're straight? You're not making any sense, Kyle," I tell him.

"I'm undecided, if you must know," he says. "THAT'S why I never explicitly say I'm gonna marry a girl."

"How can you be undecided!?!" I exclaim. "There's a little of everything out there on the Internets, just look at some of it and whatever turns you on, there you go!"

"It ALL turns me on!"

"…Hmm, that IS a problem."

"No it's not, moron! I'm a hormonally-charged teenaged boy! I would be turned on by Mr. Slave getting gerbils shoved into his ass!!"

"SICK, dude!" I exclaim.

"See why I didn't want to talk about this with you?"

"Yes!" I exclaim, reaching hurriedly for my own underwear, and jeans, and shirt, dressing faster than Kyle can even notice my first motion.

"Erm…are you going now?"

"Yes! Thanks for the advice, by the way."

"What advice?"

"About Mr. Slave. You've successfully turned me off from guys."

"Thank God…"

"Anyway, I'm gonna go call Bebe, see if she's available to hang out or do something."

"Enjoy yourself!" Kyle calls after me as I leave his room, heading down his stairs and out his door, turning towards my house and heading home.

That entire, incredibly awkward, conversation would never have happened if Wendy wasn't such a bitch.

I _hate_ my ex-girlfriend.

**Fin**


End file.
